After giving birth to Sage, though, I felt a much bigger sense of responsibility. What kind of mother was I if I wasn’t moving up the Bridge to my spiritual freedom and my son’s spiritual freedom? It was my duty to raise Sage as a Scientologist; I needed to be “all in” for him. I couldn’t have Sage growing up with an angry father and be witness to the abuse, so I had to do something about it. I believed that intense auditing and courses would fix Sean and make me a better person too.
Scientologists believe that “outflow creates inflow,” so if you have to borrow the money to get started, then you borrow it! We sold the house in Northern Cal and moved back to Valencia, and kept some money out so that Sean and I could be in session—because that was the “greater good”!
* * *
I began spending most of my free time at the church, and in no time I was “all in” again. My spiritual practice came before everything else. Once you start auditing and coursework intensively, you crave it every minute. I spent part of every day at the Celebrity Centre and scheduled my work and parental duties around coursework and auditing. The more I immersed myself, the more I wanted to be there.
By my baby’s first birthday, I had worked my way up the Bridge to the coveted state of “Clear,” the launchpad to ultimate spiritual enlightenment and superhuman powers. The Clear designation meant I was permanently freed from my “reactive mind,” the part of the brain that stores memories of past traumas and provokes destructive emotions and behaviors, which prevent us from achieving happiness and success. The route to Clear had involved a dozen courses and hundreds of auditing hours, at a cost in excess of $100,000, but I felt it had been worth every dollar and every moment of suffering and angst to rid myself of the barriers that come with human emotion. I had been broken down and built up. My confidence was at an all-time high. I felt like I could fly. Nothing and no one could bring me down.
That September, my certification was announced in grand fashion on the stairs of the Celebrity Centre. As I stood at the top of a staircase, my host, the leader of Hubbard Guidance Center (HGC), where most of the auditing took place, called for everyone to gather in the reception area. It was dinnertime, the busiest time at the Celebrity Centre, and people scurried toward the area from all directions. Sean and Mom were in the audience.
“Attention, everyone!” my host said. “Attention! We have an announcement!” My heart pounded with excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen! Michelle Seward has attained the state of Clear!”
The room exploded in cheers and applause. People shouted, “Speech! Speech!” I felt like a queen looking down at her subjects. My host stepped back and motioned for me to take her place at the podium. All eyes were on me as I began to speak. I was euphoric. “I want to thank the HGC, my auditor, the RTC”—or Religious Technology Center, the church’s ecclesiastical authority—“and, always, L. Ron Hubbard for creating the technology to clear this planet!” I said. “There are times in your life when you feel like you are walking through the mud and you’re trying to hold on so you don’t go under. Well, when you are Clear, you float above the mud and help pull everyone else out!”
At that point, Michelle the saleswoman kicked in. I wanted to share the elation I felt with anyone who would listen. I had achieved a level of clarity that I wanted everyone to experience. For the first time in my life, I felt truly content. I had unburdened myself of my human weaknesses and I was ready to conquer the world. Nothing and no one could stop me from achieving whatever it was I desired.
Speaking specifically to the preclears in the room, I said, “You need to do anything you can to buy your next intensive! Your life will never be the same again! It’s worth everything!” The crowd roared.
My host presented me with a large mahogany-framed certificate and a bouquet of flowers. People ran up to hug and congratulate me. My face ached from smiling. After everyone dispersed, I sat on the stairs, staring at my certificate. In beautiful cursive, it read: “The Church of Scientology, Qualifications Division, Department of Validity, does hereby certify that Michelle Seward has attained THE STATE OF CLEAR.” It was a moment I could only describe as magical.
CHAPTER SIX
Moving On Up
By going Clear, I had abilities the average person couldn’t even imagine—at least that was what I believed. I was taught that without my “reactive mind” and the negative thoughts contained within it, I could control everything from my career success to my health. I sincerely believed L. Ron Hubbard had blessed us, the chosen ones, with his universal wisdom. I had come far in my epochal journey to enlightenment and I couldn’t fathom stopping now. My goal was to reach the uppermost plateaus of the Bridge: the Operating Thetan, or OT, levels. Going Clear was the gateway to OT. Nirvana was within reach.
The eight OT levels are an exploration of one’s own spiritual immortality through the study of Hubbard’s most advanced research, leading to what the church describes as spiritual benefits that “surpass description.” As I understood it, an OT gained a supernatural level of awareness of his own immortality and reincarnations. His psychic powers made him capable of curing illness and psychological disorders in himself and others by sheer force of will.
The highest OT levels promised to reveal “the secrets of a disaster which resulted in the decay of life as we know it in this sector of the galaxy, and, even more importantly, how to fix it.” Hubbard said he had made the discovery during a trip to North Africa in 1967. “Somehow or other I brought it off, and obtained the material and was able to live through it,” he wrote. “I am very sure that I was the first one that ever did live through any attempt to attain that material.”
This extraordinary knowledge forms the core of the church’s methodology for saving souls and repairing the universe, but most Scientologists can’t afford to access it, and those who do are sworn to secrecy. So mind-bending are the revelations, Hubbard said, that years of costly auditing and church coursework are needed to prepare for them. Anyone who is exposed to the information prematurely will fall sick and die.
Before pursuing my OT levels, I set my sights on an optional auditing procedure called the New Life Rundown, or L-11. The course was taught by only the highest-level auditors at the church’s worldwide spiritual headquarters, the Flag Land Base in Clearwater, Florida. It promised to increase one’s “havingness,” defined by the church as “owning, possessing, being capable of commanding, taking charge of objects, energies and spaces.”
“Money is a trap,” a high-level auditor told me. “The more you outflow, the more you inflow. If you hold on to it, you will stick your flows and you’ll never make more. The more that you help others with the gifts you have been given, the better you will do.”
In the spring of 2003, I wrote a check to the church for $50,000 for the course and arranged for Sean and the baby to stay with me at Flag’s Fort Harrison Hotel for the two weeks of the course. I couldn’t tell Sean what I’d paid, but it nearly drained our bank account. Sean always complained about the amount of money I spent on auditing and courses. He was content to do just enough to stay off the church’s radar. I, on the other hand, was committed to the idea that there was nothing more worth spending my money on than my spiritual being. By the time he saw the canceled check for Flag, it would be too late to do anything about it. If he reacted badly, I would get the church to handle him.
On our first day in Clearwater, I filled out the necessary paperwork and took the Oxford Capacity Analysis test, “a scientific barometer of whether a person is getting better.” The test consisted of two hundred “yes, no or maybe” questions ranging from practical to silly and was designed to detect a person’s weaknesses, or what your “ruin” was: Do you often make tactless blunders? Are you aware of any habitual physical mannerisms such as pulling your hair, nose, ears or such like? Is your voice monotonous, rather than varied in pitch? Would you “buy on credit” with the hope that you can keep up the payments? And so on.
It took about an hour to complete the questionnaire. Then I was escorted to meet my high-priced auditor. Class 12 auditors are the crème de la crème, highly experienced, clairvoyant and capable of auditing without a meter. They become your greatest spiritual guide.
The auditor assigned to me was a woman who appeared to be in her late seventies. She was different from the other female auditors I’d had. She was stylish, with designer-label clothes, hair cut in a trendy short bob and tasteful makeup. The Ls, as the New Life Rundowns are known, are also super secretive. You’re not allowed to talk about what takes place in session with anyone. I had heard only that the very first question was so profound that many people were thunderstruck (or, as we said in the church, “blown out of their minds”) when they heard it. Supposedly it was very short, and answering it gave you the ability to have anything your heart desired. The idea was both daunting and exciting.
My über-auditor knew all about me. She’d already outlined some of the trouble spots we had to cover. Based on the review of my file by an anonymous case supervisor, she said she had a good idea of what we needed to accomplish in our time together. The course could take months to complete, but we were going to work at an escalated pace, with auditing sessions twice a day.
Then came that legendary first question: “When was the first time your power was held back?” the auditor asked.
As a Scientologist, I believed we all had past lives that went back billions of years. Now images of past lives flickered before my eyes. Back and back and back I went over the course of our twice-daily sessions together. My head hurt from thinking so hard. Each night, I fell into bed from mental exhaustion. Little by little, we began to piece the images together to form a finished picture. With the help of prompts from my auditor, I was finally able to conclude that I’d been a warrior in a galactic confederacy and had become drunk with my own power. I’d eventually been stripped of my authority and had not felt powerful in any of my lives since. Through uncovering and acknowledging this seminal event, the auditor said, my power was restored. I was free to be me. The sky was the limit. Nothing and no one could stop me now. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do!
I felt euphoric when I finished, the way you might after hurling yourself off a rock ledge into the ocean, or walking a tightrope, or reaching the peak of a challenging mountain. Auditing has that effect on people, which is why it is so addictive. You’re always looking for that next high.
I was so grateful for my new insight that I committed another $40,000 to the church, on top of the $50,000 I had paid for the course. It was money I could hardly afford, but it got me on the “big donor” list.
“Big donors” were awarded celebrity status. They got the best hotel rooms at Flag and the best tables at fund-raisers. As a big donor, I would no longer be picked up by a church van with ten other people when I traveled to another location; I would get my own private limousine. If I didn’t like a certain auditor, I could request a new one. If I was late to a course, I wouldn’t be reported. Money brought immediate deference and respect.
Sean and I came home broke, but I was confident that my contribution would pay off quickly. The course had given me the extra fire I needed to take my career to the next level, and the added donation set me on a trajectory toward acceptance into an elite group of successful businesspeople—most of them men—in the church.
I was on my way to becoming one of Scientology’s movers and shakers.
* * *
From an early age, I knew my purpose in life was to fight for something worthwhile. I remember lying next to my grandmother during naptime at her house in Nevada and her telling me, “Michelle, you will do something great in this world.” I was seven or eight at the time, but I knew that Grandma was right. I was destined to do something useful and in a big way.
I thought I’d discovered what that was when, the summer after I returned from taking the course in Florida, Mom mentioned that a human rights conference was being held at the Celebrity Centre. I’d always been interested in human rights issues, especially children’s rights, so I decided to go. It was a major conference, cosponsored by the church and a nonprofit foundation for human rights that had been founded by a Scientologist, Mary Shuttleworth. More than a thousand people were attending, including government officials and foreign dignitaries. I showed up late and took one of the only available seats, up at the front of the room, next to one of the heads of the California Democratic Party.
For the next couple of hours, I listened intently as the panel onstage spoke of human rights violations around the world, such as discrimination and racism, poverty, violence against women and the abuse of children. The stories about children really spoke to me. They were haunting and heartbreaking and I found myself eager to do anything I could to help. As the conference was ending, I stood to speak. “You have a captive audience here,” I said. “Can we sign up to do something? Do you need money? You have a roomful of Scientologists. What do you want us to do, because we’re ready to do anything you need!”
Once the applause died down, a pair of church executives approached me privately. Both welcomed me warmly. Leisa Goodman introduced herself as the human rights director for the church. Standing beside her was Heber Jentzsch, the president of Scientology International. Leisa, a tall, pretty woman who spoke with the accent of her native New Zealand, said they liked what I’d said. She wondered if I’d be willing to meet with her the following week to talk about ways I might become involved. I was awestruck. Over the years, Mom had introduced me to some of the higher-ups in the church, but these two were top executives and they had sought me out!
“A meeting?” I stammered. “Yes, sure—of course!”
A few days later, I was in the lobby of the Office of Special Affairs on Hollywood Boulevard waiting to be escorted upstairs to the executive offices. It is top secret and only people with the highest-level security clearance work there. Every door had a card access pad, and security guards or staffers escorted all visitors. I walked to the front desk and asked for my mom, who was by then back from Toronto and working in the OSA building.
She arrived to escort me upstairs, and I could see how proud she was that I’d been invited there. We stepped off the elevator into what I can only describe as something out of a spy novel. The windowless reception area was expansive, with walls of mahogany. It was dim and eerily quiet. A receptionist sat behind a high U-shaped desk. Behind her were three doors with card readers. Offices for the bigwigs, I assumed.
“Good morning,” she said quietly.
Mom responded, “I have my daughter here for a meeting with Leisa Goodman.” The receptionist nodded politely and picked up a phone.
“Sir . . . Yes, sir . . . Michelle Seward is here . . . Yes, sir . . . Thank you very much, sir.” My face must have given away how intimidated I felt, because Mom touched my hand and smiled reassuringly.
A moment passed and Leisa appeared from behind one of the thick wooden office doors. She was dressed in a fashionable suit and heels, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless. She smiled warmly, but I could see that she was checking out my clothes.
“You look lovely,” she pronounced.
She barely acknowledged my mom, who was a lower rank than she was. I thought it odd.
I hugged Mom good-bye and followed Leisa into a large conference room. The room was vast, with a cherrywood table at the center, leather chairs, bookshelves stuffed with L. Ron Hubbard books, and framed portraits of the late founder lining the walls.
Leisa introduced me to Mary Shuttleworth. They explained that the foundation needed a U.S. president.
“We have checked your background and you are exactly the person we’ve been looking for. You’re young, you communicate well, you’re successful and you’re a mother. These are all things we think are important to the foundation.”
Mary nodded her approval. I was flattered, but I couldn’t imagin
e I had the time for such an important role when I had my burgeoning career and an active toddler at home.
Sensing my uncertainty, Leisa dropped a three-ring binder on the table in front of me. The cover was stamped “Confidential.” “Go ahead, take a look,” she said. The book was filled with photos and stories of human rights tragedies she said the church had uncovered. I felt sick as I turned page after page of stories and pictures of victims of genocide and massacres around the world. I broke down when I got to the section about starving slave children in Africa. I was in tears as I closed the binder. “I can’t look anymore,” I said.
Only much later did I learn that Leisa had asked my mother probing questions about me and that Mom had given her everything she needed to reel me in. She fed Leisa information about my job, how I was the breadwinner in my family and I made all the financial decisions, and most notably the size of the donations we made to the church. She shared that I had a love for children and a passion for Africa—that I’d even talked to Sean about adopting an African child. The binder had been tailor-made for me based on the input from my mother. And it worked.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Three months later, in August 2004, in my new role as the volunteer U.S. president of our church-sanctioned group, I was speaking to an audience of delegates and advocacy leaders at the United Nations Human Rights Summit in New York City. I was so green I could barely say my foundation’s name without stumbling over my words, but somehow I made it through my speech without embarrassing myself. I had found my niche. I threw myself into my new volunteer position, learning about human rights violations around the world, raising money for the foundation, educating schoolchildren and business executives about human rights abuses in South Central LA. My function was to promote the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights and specifically to advocate for children, a role that I relished.
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